Shadows live in strange locations between daylight and dusk, between the logical symbols and the deceptive images which exist in direct sunlight and the complete horror that becomes real at night-time. Is it possible to show a correspondence between such a phenomenon and the concept of the flow of time, therefore? What about the present, for example, the time which does not exist, from one perspective, which is always on the boundary between the past and the future? Or, on the other hand, perhaps it would be better to say the present is the only time that exists, from this viewpoint. Whatever the answer may be, if there is any answer at all, we can go on to enquire: Is the phenomenon we hold to be the present caused by ripples of the future flowing towards the past, or by shadows of things which have been that are thrown on events which are to come? 

 

[Steffan] O boys, my dear boys – Young Staffy, Stevo later on – here I am, Steffan from the future. I shall be you two when you’re older, imagine that! I suppose it is rather unfair that it is I, the present incarnation of your personality who has the last word, but it’s inevitable, that’s the order of the universe, as it is my mind that is awakening memories about our shared history, conjuring shadows of the night from within the dark. However, you, the unreal voices that form the lonely-hearts choir in my head, are my mind and my thoughts, you old devils! And you are very important, without a doubt. Well, you two, and the rest of you, the other parts, which are endless variations on the same old theme, namely the character of this man between the time he was born and this present moment. 

 

[David] What kind of thing exactly is escaping, I wonder, David Baxter, especially when you’re always wading through shadows as thick as the mud in the trenches of the Great Tribulation, in this Vale of Tears, which don’t disappear even in the day, not to mention the night? Sitting – walking – running – flying. I’m crouching silently, the scars like red rwnic letters all over my body hurting awfully, considering the future, and trying to convince myself that I am a natural survivor, definitely. Well, after all, there’s only me who’s still here. Mam, my guardian angel, is sleeping fitfully on the other side somewhere, despite how I wielded the magic knife, and I hear her screaming all the time still. Using the power of words, I ensured that my iniquitous Uncle, the abuser, went to his demise, when he burst a blood-vessel in his brain at the top of the stairs that night. I’ve done my best to keep my sister, but no success as she’s run off to be a famous poet or something and there’s no-one here to look after me anymore. And to top it all off, my Dad has just popped his clogs, fled from his final judgement, kicked the bucket, gone to meet his makers (in a manner of speaking), escaped from the horrors of the world. There’s Steffan, I suppose, but he doesn’t count as family, does he?

 

[Steffan] Here I am, then, a grown-up man, and I’m considering the kind of gracious and reassuring clichés I could prattle to you, the younger boys, whilst looking back through those rose-tinted spectacles which appear on a man’s nose in the fullness of time. But of course, I refuse to wear them due to my pride, and because I am a truthful man. Oh, everything is vanity, says the preacher, but believe you me, I’m no sermonizer now, comrades, by the Old Mad Gods! {Sermonizing} But having said that, adversity brings learning in its hand, so, I shall proceed. 

 

[David] It should’ve been a blessed release, but what’s happened instead? I dunno, although only guilt and shame are left to me. Here, my thoughts are flying off like leaves being blown by a tempest in the depths of the night. It’s a guilty man who sees his shadow between himself and the Sun, and who must flee for his life from it. But, I don’t understand why I’m not sinless, nor know from what fear I’m trying to escape. Suddenly, I find myself standing stock-still, beside the shores of the quiet waters of the imagination, and then – journey, hope, longing, language – these words tug on me from afar, as if new lands are inviting me; and they’re the beats of some strange drums, which keep on calling me on to meet my fate. 

 

[Steffan] I shouldn’t be so harsh, since this behaviour is only a defence mechanism, and you two will understand without a problem at all from where we get such oddness and foibles. I am sorry that I am still talking in riddles but it’s a guilty conscience that fears its shadow, proffering excuses all the time and trying to escape the painful truth. So, let me answer the questions that still are dancing like midges before your troubled minds. Perhaps I shall be able to slay some imaginary shadows. 

 

[David] Anyhow, escape is a strange thing indeed, I think. There are journeys, and therefore escapes, everywhere, and they creep up on us all the time, especially when we don’t expect them at all, when we think we’re not going anywhere. In truth, living itself can feel similar to a dangerous escape, from where, or to where, I have no clue, and that’s no surprise then, ha ha! But, for better or for worse, life reveals its secrets like unknown treasures scattered in dung-heaps besides the path that leads from the cradle to the grave. From time to time we’ll dance down the yellow-brick road, somewhere over the rainbow, where we’ll find health, wealth, and happiness. But sometimes, we’ll crawl on all fours, along the road to the Nw Yrth’s deepest pools of despair, paved with good intentions. Sometimes the one, sometimes the other, who knows before we finish the journey, before we escape once and for all? All we can do is walk, or jump, or run, weeping or laughing at the same time.

 

[Steffan] Oh, boys, you shall have such dreams concerning the future. And truly, you shall go to the Unitechnic to follow the path towards holy glory, and eternal purity, trying to succeed as a numerologist who can control the fate of the undisciplined and bestial folk. What a noble idea! But, terrible to relate, everyone else will appear so pretentious, so proud, so ambitious to climb the slippery pole, to become a world-famous mentalist, or a People’s Representative. So, on the surface at least, you’ll become an old young fogey, who’ll contradict the rest on principle, trying to flagellate yourself all the time. You’ll not settle down amongst the posh nobs. You’ll never feel at peace there, as you’ll be the only lad without a companion. And to be honest, very often you’ll be lacking company, when the rest are having fun of all sorts, I’ll not have to elaborate, I hope, on the meaning further. And on top of that, there’ll be no best friends, and what with all the frustration, you’ll fall head-over-heels in love with the life of the gambling houses, the illegal cabaret clubs, the twenty-four-hour mesmeric-mould shops, and myriad other dens of iniquity. And Oh, needless to say, you shall learn a thing or two there! 

 

[David] Of course, all escapes begin with a single step, they say. I’m always thinking about the space-cadets who imagine going off into the enormous darkness of the depths of space in the form of artificial people or something. Perhaps, it they succeeded, that would be one small step for a man, but one big leap for mankind too. But they’ll never do it! There again, there’s no need for us to go so far, is there, because we can overcome our fears by travelling to internal spaces, to places where no-one can hear us scream. Right then, we’re starting to talk about using the voice, about tale-telling, about spouting lies. What else can we say about language, then? 

 

[Steffan] Now, let me spill the beans. One should never say that any single experience is a mistake, but, by Hebé, if I ever wanted to regret anything, it would be what I am going to talk about next. A big sin can come in through a tiny door, so they say. Grrrrr! You can growl like a great, hairy bear by now, and perhaps that is how you’ll appear. But despite that, it’ll be very hard for you to behave sensibly and wisely in that fresh new Hell, in the lions’ den, the night-club, the freaky-fungus chamber, and the thousand-and-one other places that belong to the Indolent Idolaters here on the Eyrth. Not only shall you plunge your spoon into that cauldron of corruption; but you shall enjoy throwing yourself head-first into sewers worse than those of the Nw Yrth, too. By Swtakh, shall all the plans, so carefully made, come to naught? (Although having said that, in the flop-house and the shameful bed you shall remain chaste, and maddeningly lonely!)

 

[David] It’s obvious to me at least, that escape of some sort is the present hidden in the heart of language, like a slug in the middle of a lettuce. We were born without speech but this situation doesn’t last for a long time. Then, after conjuring up the spirit of some tongue, usually in accordance with our parents’ choice, we wander through childhood like a babbling brook, learning the meaning of words, bitter and sweet, and lots of appropriate terminology too. On the one hand, with this idiom some will cast spells for the rest of their lives. On the other hand, perhaps it will control us and steer us towards death, even. It’s possible that it’ll light the fire of new ideas, opening ways to discover unknown information, and support a lifetime full of adventure and excitement. Despite that, a few bad words can become seeds of disaster and destruction, as often happens in the life of one who’s not clever or careful enough. In this case, living will be but a long and painful journey to the jail or the mad-house – a journey that’ll lead before too long to an ignominious death. 

 

[Steffan] In the meantime, back in the Unitechnic, after every weekend of excess, you’ll despise the excruciating environment which totally disheartens you. There, you’ll never be good enough due to your plebeian accent and your humble background – and your otherworldly talents at calculating gambling odds, telling fortunes, and getting freaky fungus from the Old Holy Warrior. You shall be chewed up and then spat out as if you were some chunk of stinking tobacco. You shall be accursed, cast out, and you shall not know how to shout at the devils, how to express your true, deepest feelings. You shall attempt to study the Old Books under the influence of particular substances to intensify your insight, and shall fail, feeling worthless. But succeed you shall in experiencing horrifying visions of the Nw Yrth and the acts caused by those who refuse the legal rule of the Seraphic Sorcerers. But at least they shall inspire your famous paintings in times to come! And in the end, all this shall catch up with you indeed, becoming too much, and you shall explode. You shall tell them what you think of them all by plastering your opinion, full of abstruse symbols, on the wall of the Great Hall, covered with pictures of old fogeys, using blood (well, red paint), one moon-lit night. It will be as if you have kicked a hornet’s nest, my boy!

 

[David] These pictures of escapes, filled with longing for a long-ago-forgotten land, gallop through my inflamed mind like rabid, skeletal horses, and I feel so strongly that I myself must escape, run off, dive into the Unknown Ocean and swim as hard as I can. So I get up quickly from the old comfy chair still stained with all the blood and the memories of horror and dying; stumble into the thick and polluted air in the unimaginable world that lurks outside, leaving the stifling atmosphere of the house for ever. This is the beginning of a journey towards freedom I’ve been waiting for all my life. This is the time to go, to look for the rainbow and for the pile of gold, the cauldron of rebirth, at its end, or I never will! May the winds favour you, and may you go well – until we all reach the end of our journeys, at the end of the same human story – as every story finishes like that, in the best books at least – in escape to a kingdom, we can hope, where greedy shadows don’t exist at all! And for some reason, there’s the Old Soldier calling me, grinning from ear to ear, as my scars itch and burn like live coals on my skin. 

 

[Steffan] Oh dear, Oh dear! What a fool you shall be! It shall be such a pity! Oooh – the more prodigious one is, the more wretched one’s fall! – as the Dean exclaims while he exiles you from the Unitechnic, when the time comes. So ‘Off with you, boy!’ nothing more than that. He will ban you from bed and board – and then, through the power of bell, book, and candle, you shall be pronounced anathema. Your gown shall be torn asunder – Your mortarboard shall be made into a real mortar-board. And so – amongst the bedlam of the blackboards – according to the law of the academic jungle, namely, May the master of the minutiae prevail – shall it be, for ever and ever, amen. Behold the power of the Word! The number seven shall not be able to help you this time as you recite – The Seven Year Itch – the Seven Bestial Commandments – Seven Days of the Week – the Seven Liberal Arts – Seven Movements in Ballet – Seven Wonders of the World – the Seven Years War – but not one jot of these magical mantras shall be of benefit to you. You shall be flung out of the Ancient and Strange Institution before you start properly. But there shall be no turning the clock back by then. Whatever’s begun, cannot be undone. That is all, my lads, without a word of a lie! What in the Two Worlds is the point of the whole palaver? Is it worth going on? Well perhaps the wise man does not say what he knows, but remember this at least: the weapon of the brave is in his heart, my boys, safe is the owner of a pure heart. So, thanks to you, and farewell! 

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

Unbeknownst to the two lads, they’re conjuring spectres of the future, or acting as aerials, perhaps – the one of them who wants to call his Mam back from the grave still, clinging to life; the other who wants to leave everything behind, meditating on killing himself.

 

So, here’s a boy called David on the verge of escaping, about to run off once again, as usual, and perhaps he’ll succeed this time, although he doesn’t realise the true nature of the force that’s always driving him on, nor worry about it either, as he moves. And then again, to what safe haven will he flee, and into whose warm arms? There will be someone, somewhere, somehow, to care for him, with whom he’ll be able to share his silly dreams about changing the world through organising free parties, and rave music, and spreading the love, won’t there? But before that can happen, he’ll have to visit the cottage in the pine woods on the bank of the river where everything always looks so sad, the place the Old Soldier has shown him. He’s sure there’ll be something there of enormous value if he can find it. 

 

And there’s a man called Steffan, extremely agitated. He’s reached the end of his tether by now and it sitting alone on the bank of the Weeping River amongst the forest of pines, in the wide shadow that is the substance of adulthood, and the darkness is no longer a friend, not now. The night is howling, although his own yelping has stopped, but there’s no pirates to snatch him away on a flying bed and proclaim him Patarasanū Pūshan, nor are the tree-people there either to cuddle him now – no true male friends – no-one. Alone, he eyes up the bloody keys, and the raw flesh on his lower left arm, whilst the Old Holy Warrior watches in the distance, scowling. Some words dedicated to the bride of chaos, the rider upon the beast, hang in the mist: ‘With this knife, do I draw out the blood, which is my life’. As has happened so often before, the lad’ll have to wear long sleeves tomorrow to hide the wounds, but, this time, he’s decided without a shadow of a doubt that tomorrow shall not be. Wezir help me, is his wan hope while preparing to fling himself into the rust-coloured water, full of psychedelic oil, wrecked shopping-trolleys, and the bodies of dead rats. And he so wishes he could fly. 

 

And due to the fervent thoughts of the two lads, which are echoing from the future to the past, probably, there’s some “divine-madness” performance by the cyber-ascension band called The Starry Dead which hasn’t happened yet, being broadcast from the Nw Yrth to blow through the minds of both, and it’s full of "banda" enchantment, and the constant tears of the Seraphic Sorcerer named Nebesh —

 

Oh, how feeble and fragile is the Thorlin's existence! How easy to suffer and flee! {Transience} But will we ever escape? Again and again, I use the strongest magic to reach the endless banks of the Teary River. Everywhere I sense minds pleading, mute and blind, beneath the mirror-surface, wet and green. There they are, the disappeared ones, half-smiling expectantly in the furthest depths of the oily liquid, although I can never see them clearly. And there I'll often stare at my own mournful image for ages, just trying to catch one glimpse of them. Ah! Yearning to commune, I don the woad-stained Death-mask, and reach out my hands desperately towards them. With ancient words I beseech them to approach the indigo light, and open eyes that have been sewn shut for so long. Then, look, the lost souls rise up without warning, in bodies that are whole for a moment. But in that instant, they disperse, those with coins in their mouths, not allowed to remain by the unspoken laws of the shadowy kingdom. How many are forced to return without rest to drink the addictive waters, and then fade away so quickly once more? Before too long, I pray, they'll get free with my help and cross the wall that detains them. And then they shall conquer death and seize the brand-new lives that were promised to us all so long ago.

Mae cysgodion yn byw mewn lleoliad rhyfedd rhwng golau dydd a gwyll, rhwng y symbolau rhesymegol a’r delweddau twyllodrus sydd yn bodoli yn llygad yr haul a’r arswyd llwyr sydd yn dod yn real liw nos. A ydy’n bosibl dangos cyffelybiaeth rhwng y fath ffenomen a chysyniad treigl amser, felly? Beth am y presennol, er enghraifft, yr amser nad yw’n bod, o un persbectif, sydd wastad ar y ffin rhwng y gorffennol a’r dyfodol? Neu ynteu, ar y llaw arall, efallai mai gwell fyddai dweud mai’r presennol yw’r unig amser sydd yn bodoli, o’r safbwynt hwn. Beth bynnag fo’r ateb, os bydd ateb o gwbl, gallwn ni fynd yn ein blaen i holi: A achosir y ffenomen yr ydym yn arddel mai’r presennol ydy gan grychdonnau’r dyfodol yn llifo tuag at y gorffennol, neu gan gysgodion pethau sydd wedi mynd a deflir ar ddigwyddiadau sydd i ddod?

 

[Steffan] O fechgyn, fy mechgyn annwyl i – Staffy ifanc, Stevo yn hwyrach – dyma fi, Steffan o’r dyfodol. Myfi fydd y ddau ohonoch chi pan fyddwch chi’n hŷn, dychmygwch 'ny! Fe dybiaf fi ei bod yn eithaf annheg mai fi, yr ymgnawdoliad cyfredol eich personoliaeth, sydd yn cael y gair olaf, ond mae’n anochel, dyna drefn y bydysawd, gan mai fy meddwl sy’n deffro atgofio am ein hanes cyfrannol ni, yn consurio cysgodion y nos oddi mewn i’r gwyll. Fodd bynnag, chi, y lleisiau afreal sy’n ffurfio côr y calonnau unig yn fy mhen, yw fy meddwl a’m meddyliau, yr hen ddiawliaid chi! Ac rydych chi’n bwysig iawn, heb os. Wel, chi'ch dau, a’r gweddill ohonoch chi, y rhannau eraill, sydd yn amrywiadau di-dor ar yr un hen thema, sef cymeriad y dyn hwn rhwng yr amser y cafodd ei eni ac yr adeg bresennol hon.

 

[David] Pa fath o beth yn union yw dianc, tybed, David Baxter, yn enwedig pan dych chi wastad yn bracsan drwy gysgodion mor drwchus â llaid ffosydd y Cythrwfl Mawr, yn y Dyffryn Baca hwn, fydd ddim yn diflannu hyd yn oed yn y dydd, heb sôn am y nos? Eistedd – cerdded – rhedeg – ehedeg. Dw i’n cyrcydu’n ddistaw, a’r creithiau fel llythrennau rwnig, coch dros ‘y nghorff i gyd yn brifo’n ofnadw’, gan ystyried y dyfodol, a thrio ‘narbwyllo’n hunan taw goroeswr wrth natur dw i, yn bendant. Wel wedi’r cwbl, dim ond fi sy ‘ma o hyd. Huno’n ysbeidiol mae Mam yn rhywle ar yr ochr arall, ‘yn angyles warcheidiol, er gwaetha’ sut ‘nes i drin y gyllell hudol, a dw i’n chlywed hi’n sgrechian bob amser o hyd. Gan ddefnyddio pŵer geiriau ‘nes i ofalu i’n Wncwl anfad o gamdriniwr fynd i’w dranc, pan dorrodd gwythïen waed yn ei ymennydd ar ben y staer y noson ‘na. Dw i ‘di ‘neud ‘y ngorau glas i gadw’r chwaer, ond heb lwyddo achos bod hi ‘di rhedeg bant i fod yn farddes enwog neu rywbeth a ‘sneb ‘ma i ‘ngharco fi rhagor. Ac ar ben popeth, mae ‘Nhad newydd estyn y fer, ffoi rhag y farn a ddaw, cicio’r bwced, mynd i gyfarfod â’i grewyr (mewn ffordd o siarad), dianc o arswyd y byd. Dyna Steffan, sbo, ond dyw e’m yn cyfri’ fel teulu, ydy e?

 

[Steffan] Dyma fi, felly, dyn mewn oed, ac rwy’n ystyried y cyfryw ystrydebau rhadlon a chysurlon y gallwn i’u clebran wrthoch, y bechgyn ieuengach, wrth edrych yn ôl trwy’r sbectol ruddwawr honno sydd yn ymddangos ar drwyn dyn gyda threigl amser. Ond wrth gwrs, rwy’n gwrthod ei gwisgo hi o achos fy malchder, ac am mai gŵr geirwir ydw i. O, gwagedd yw’r cwbl, medd y pregethwr, ond coeliwch chi fi, nid pregethwr mohonof fi erbyn hyn, gymrodyr, myn yr Hen Dduwiau Gwallgof! Ond wedi dweud hynny, adfyd a ddaw â dysg yn ei law, felly fe af fi yn fy mlaen.

 

[David] Fe ddylai fe fod wedi bod yn rhyddhad hyfryd, ond beth sy ‘di digwydd yn lle ‘ny? ‘Dwn i’m, er taw dim ond euogrwydd a gwarth sy ar ôl i fi. Yna, mae’n meddyliau i’n hedfan bant fel dail yn cael eu chwythu gan dymestl yn nhrymder y nos. Euog a wêl ei gysgod rhyngddo â’r Haul, ac a fydd yn gorfod ffoi am ei hoedl rhagddo. Ond, dw i’m yn deall pam dw i’m yn ddibechod, na gwybod rhag pa fraw dw i’n trio dianc. Yn sydyn, dw i’n ‘y nghael fy hunan yn sefyll yn stond, ar bwys glannau dyfroedd tawel y dychymyg, ac wedyn – taith, gobaith, hiraeth, iaith – mae’r geiriau ‘ma yn tynnu arna i o bell, fel ‘sai tiroedd newydd yn ‘y ngwahodd; a churiadau rhai drymiau estron dyn nhw, sy'n dal i 'ngalw i ‘mlaen i gwrdd â ‘nhynged.

 

[Steffan] Ni ddylwn i fod mor llym, gan mai dim ond adwaith amddiffynnol yw’r ymddygiad hwn, a chi'ch dau fydd yn deall heb yr un broblem o gwbl o ble rydyn ni’n cael y fath odrwydd a gwendidau. Mae’n ddrwg gennyf fy mod yn dal i siarad mewn damhegion ond cydwybod euog a ofna ei gysgod, gan hel esgusion drwy’r amser a cheisio ffoi rhag y gwirionedd poenus. Felly, gadewch imi ateb y cwestiynau sy’n dawnsio fel gwybed o flaen eich meddyliau cythryblus o hyd. Efallai y gallaf fi ladd rhai cysgodion dychmygol.

 

[David] Ta be’, peth rhyfedd yw dianc yn wir, dw i’n credu. Mae teithiau ac felly diangfeydd ym mhobman, ac fe fyddan nhw’n sleifio aton ni bob tro, yn enwedig pan fyddwn ni’m yn eu disgwyl nhw o gwbl, pan wyddom ni awn ni’m i unman. Mewn gwirionedd, fe all byw ei hunan deimlo’n debyg i ddihangfa beryglus, o ble, neu i ble, na wn i, ‘sdim clem ‘da fi, a dim syndod ‘na ‘te, ha ha! Ond er gwell neu er gwaeth fe fydd bywyd yn datgelu’i gyfrinachau fel trysorau anhysbys wedi’u gwasgaru mewn tomenni tail ar ymyl llwybr fydd yn arwain o enedigaeth i farwolaeth. O bryd i’w gilydd byddwn ni’n dawnsio ar hyd y ffordd o frics melyn, yn rhywle draw dros yr enfys, ble fe ddown ni o hyd i iechyd, cyfoeth, a dedwyddwch. Ond ambell waith, fe fyddwn ni’n ymlusgo ar ein pedwar, ar hyd y ffordd i byllau dyfna' anobaith y Nw Yrth, wedi’i phalmantu â bwriadau da. Weithiau’r naill, weithiau’r llall: pwy a ŵyr cyn i ni orffen y daith, cyn i ni ddianc unwaith ac am byth? Y cyfan allwn ni ‘neud yw cerdded, neu neidio, neu redeg, dan lefain neu chwerthin ar yr un pryd.

 

[Steffan] O, fechgyn, bydd gennych y fath freuddwydion ynghylch y dyfodol. Ac yn wir, fe ewch i’r Prifdechnig er mwyn dilyn y llwybr tuag at ogoniant glân, a phurdeb tragwyddol, gan geisio llwyddo fel rhifolwr a all reoli ffawd y werin annisgybledig a bustachaidd. Am syniad nobl! Ond, gwael dweud, bydd pawb arall yn ymddangos mor ymhongar, mor falch, mor uchelgeisiol i ddringo’r polyn llithrog, i ddod yn feddyliaethydd byd-eang, ynteu Gynrychiolydd y Werin. Felly, ar y wyneb o leiaf, fe ddewch chi’n hen daid ifanc, fydd yn tynnu’n groes i’r lleill ar egwyddor, gan geisio’ ch fflangellu’ch hun drwy’r amser. Nid ymsefydlwch ymhlith y byddigions. Ni fyddwch byth yn teimlo’n llonydd yno, am mai’r unig lanc heb gariad fyddwch. A bod yn onest, byddwch yn ddigwmni’n aml iawn, pan fydd y gweddill yn cael hwyl o bob math, ni fydd rhaid imi ymhelaethu, obeithiwn, ar yr ystyr bellach. Ac ar ben hynny ni fydd dim ffrindiau gorau, ac ymhlith yr holl rwystredigaeth, fe syrthiwch dros eich pen a’ch clustiau mewn cariad â bywyd y tai gamblo, y clybiau cabare anghyfreithlon, y siopau llwydni llesmeiriol sydd ar agor ddydd a nos, ac ogofeydd lladron fyrdd eraill. Ac O, afraid dweud, fe ddysgwch beth neu ddau yno!

 

[David] Wrth gwrs, mae diangfeydd i gyd yn dechrau gydag un cam, maen nhw’n dweud. Dw i wastad yn meddwl am gadlanciau'r gofod sy’n dychmygu mynd mas i dywyllwch enfawr pellafoedd y gwagle ar ffurf bobl artiffisial neu rywbeth. Falle, ‘sen nhw’n llwyddo, fe fyddai ‘ny’n un cam bach i ddyn, ond un llam mawr i ddynolryw hefyd. Ond lwyddan nhw byth. Eto i gyd, ‘sdim rhaid i ni fynd mor bell, on’d oes, achos bod ni’n gallu goresgyn ein hofnau drwy deithio i leoedd mewnol, i fannau ble na all neb ein clywed ni’n sgrechain. Reit te, dyma ni’n dechrau siarad am ddefnyddio’r llais, am chwedleua, am ddweud celwyddau. Beth arall allwn ni weud am iaith, te?

 

[Steffan] Nawr, gadewch imi fwrw fy mola berfedd. Ni ddylai dyn byth ddweud mai camgymeriad yw’r un profiad, ond ‘neno Hebé, pe dymunwn i edifarhau rhywbeth erioed, fe fyddai’r hyn y byddaf yn mynd i sôn amdano nesaf. Gall pechod mawr ddyfod trwy ddrws bychan, meddant. Grrrrr! Fe fedrwch chwyrnu fel arth fawr, flewog erbyn hyn, ac efallai mai dyna sut y byddwch yn ymddangos. Ond er hynny, bydd yn anodd iawn ichi ymddwyn yn synhwyrol a chall yn yr Uffern newydd, yn ffau’r llewod, y clwb nos, siambr y ffwng frîci, a’r cant a mil o fannau eraill sy’n perthyn i’r Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd yma ar y Ddaear. Nid yn unig y plymiwch eich llwy yn y crochanau hynny o lygredigaeth; ond fe fyddwch yn mwynhau’ch bwrw’ch hun lwrw’ch pen i garthbyllau’n waeth nag eiddo’r Nw Yrth, hefyd. Myn Swtach, a fydd y cynlluniau oll, wedi’u trefnu mor gynnil, yn mynd i’r gwellt? (Ond, wedi dweud hynny, yn y tŷ cysgu a'r gwely aflan, byddwch yn aros yn ddiwair, ac yn gythruddol o unig!)

 

[David] Mae’n amlwg i fi o leia’, taw dihangfa o ryw fath yw’r anrheg wedi’i guddio yng nghalon iaith fel gwlithen yng nghanol letysen. Fe gawson ni’n geni heb iaith ond fydd y sefyllfa ‘ma ddim yn parhau am amser hir. Wedyn, ar ôl consurio ysbryd rhyw iaith, fel arfer yn unol â dewis y rhieni, fe fyddwn ni’n crwydro drwy febyd fel nant sisialog, gan ddysgu ystyr geiriau chwerw a melys, a llawer o derminoleg briodol hefyd. Ar y naill law, gyda’r iaith ‘ma fe fydd rhai’n bwrw hud drwy weddill eu hoes. Ar y llaw arall, falle bydd hi’n ein rheoli a’n llywio ni at angau, hyd yn oed. Mae’n bosib bydd hi’n cynnau tân syniadau newydd, gan agor ffyrdd i ddarganfod gwybodaeth anadnabyddus, a chefnogi einioes lawn o antur a chyffro. Serch ‘ny, gall ychydig o eiriau drwg ddod yn hadau trychineb a dinistr, fel bydd yn aml ddigwydd ym mywyd y sawl dyw’m yn ddigon clyfar na gofalus. Yn yr achos ‘ma, dim byd ond taith hir a phoenus i’r carchar neu’r gwallgofdy fydd byw – taith fydd yn arwain cyn rhy hir i dranc gwarthus.

 

[Steffan] Yn y cyfamser, yn ôl yn y Prifdechnig, ar ôl pob penwythnos rhemp, ffieiddiwch yr amgylchfyd dirdynnol a’ch gwna’n hollol ddigalon. Yno, ni fyddwch byth yn ddigon da o achos eich acen werinol a’ch cefndir gostyngedig – a’ch doniau arallfydol o ran cyfrif yr ots gamblo, dweud ffortiynau, a chael ffwng ffrîci gan yr Hen Ryfelwr Llwyd. Cewch chi’ch cnoi’n dipiau ac wedyn eich poeri allan fel pe tasech yn rhyw dalp o faco drewllyd. Byddwch yn felltigedig, ar wahân, ac ni wybyddwch sut y bydd gweiddi ar y diawliaid, sut i fynegi’ch teimladau dyfnaf, cywir. Ceisiwch astudio’r Hen Lyfrau dan ddylanwad sylweddau neilltuol i ddwysáu’ch mewnwelediad, a phallu, gan deimlo’n ddiwerth. Ond llwyddo a wnewch i brofi gweledigaethau arswydus o’r Nw Yrth a’r gweithredoedd a achosir gan y rhai sydd yn gwrthod rheol gyfreithiol y Swynwyr Seraffaidd. Ond o leiaf byddant yn ysbrydoli’ch paentiadau enwog yn amserau i ddod. Ac yn y pendraw, bydd hyn i gyd yn dal i fyny â chi’n wir, gan fynd yn ormod, a ffrwydrwch chi. Fe ddywedwch wrthynt yr hyn feddyliwch ohonynt i gyd trwy beintio’ch barn, llawn symbolau astrus, ar wal y Neuadd Fawr wedi’i thaenu â murluniau o hen gonos, mewn gwaed (wel, paent coch), un nos olau leuad. Bydd fel pe buasech yn tynnu nyth cacwn ar eich pen chi, fy machgen i!

 

[David] Mae’r lluniau ‘ma o ddiangfeydd, wedi’u llenwi â hiraeth am dir wedi’i anghofio amser maith yn ôl, yn carlamu drwy’n ymennydd llidiog fel ceffylau esgyrnog, cynddeiriog, a dw i’n teimlo mor gryf fod rhaid i fi’n hunan ddianc, rhedeg bant, deifio i’r Eigionfor Anhysbys a nofio nerth ‘y mreichiau. Felly dyma fi’n cyflym godi oddi ar yr hen gadair esmwyth wedi’i staenio eto â’r holl waed a chofion arswyd a marw; baglu i’r awyr drwchus a llygredig yn y byd tu hwnt i’r dychymyg sy’n llechu tu mas, gan adael awyrgylch myglyd y tŷ am byth. Dyma ddechrau taith tuag at ryddid dw i ‘di bod yn aros amdani drwy gydol ‘yn oes. Dyma’r adeg i fynd, i chwilio am yr enfys a’r peth wmbredd o aur, pair dadeni, ar ei ben, neu af fi byth! Rhwydd hynt i chi, a da boch chi – nes i ni i gyd gyrraedd pennau’n teithiau, ddiwedd yr un hanes dynol – achos fe fydd pob stori’n gorffen fel ‘na, yn y llyfrau gorau o leia’ – mewn dianc i deyrnas, allwn ni obeithio, ble na fydd cysgodion rheibus yn bodoli o gwbl! Ac am ryw reswm, dyna’r Hen Filwr yn galw arna i dan wenu o glust i glust wrth i ‘nghreithiau ysu a llosgi fel glo byw ar ‘y nghroen.

 

[Steffan] O diar, O diar! Dyna ffŵl fyddwch chi! Dyna drueni a fydd! Pa fodd y cwympodd y cedyrn – fel yr ebycha’r Deon wrth iddo’ch alltudio o’r Prifdechnig, pan ddaw hi’n gyfrif. Felly, ‘Bant â chi, fachgen!’ dim byd mwy na hynny. Fe fydd yn eich atal rhag bwyd a llety – ac wedyn, trwy bŵer cloch, llyfr, a channwyll y bydd eich enw’n gabl. Fe rwygir eich gŵn yn ddau – fe droir eich cap academaidd i’n sbot morter go iawn. Ac felly – ymhlith bedlam y byrddau duon – yn ôl deddf y jyngl addysgol, sef, Meistr y manylion a drecho – y bydd yn oes oesoedd, amen. Wele nerth y Gair! Ni fedra’r rhif saith eich helpu’r tro hwn wrth ichi adrodd – Ysfa Saith Mlynedd – Saith Gorchymyn yr Anifeiliaid – Saith Diwrnod yr Wythnos – y Saith Gelfyddyd Freiniol – Saith Symudiad mewn Bale – Saith Rhyfeddod y Byd – y Rhyfel Saith Mlynedd – ond nid yr un mymryn o’r mantrâu hudol hyn fydd o fudd ichi. Fe gewch eich taflu allan o’r Sefydliad Hynafol a Rhyfedd cyn ichi ddechrau’n o iawn. Ond ni fydd dim troi’r cloc yn ei ôl erbyn hynny. Pa beth bynnag a ddechreuwyd, ni ellir heb ei wneuthur. Dyna’r cwbl, bois bach, heb air o gelwydd! Beth yn y Ddau Fyd yw diben yr holl beth? A yw hi’n werth mynd ymlaen? Wel dichon mai’r doeth na ddywed a ŵyr, ond cofiwch chi hyn o leiaf: arf glew yn ei galon, fy mechgyn i, asgre lân, diogel ei pherchen. Felly, diolch ichi, a ffarwél!

 

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Heb yn wybod i’r ddau lanc, maen nhw’n consurio rhithiau’r dyfodol, neu’n gweithredu fel erialau, falle – y naill ohonyn nhw sy eisiau galw ei Mam yn ôl o’r bedd o hyd, gan lynu wrth fywyd; y llall sy eisiau gadael popeth ar ôl, gan feddwl uwchben ‘neud amdano’i hun.

 

Felly dyma fachgen o’r enw David ar fin dianc, ar fedr rhedeg i ffwrdd unwaith eto, fel arfer, ac efallai bydd yn llwyddo’r tro hwn, er nad yw’n sylweddoli cywir natur y grym sy wastad yn ei yrru yn ei flaen, na phoeni amdani ‘chwaith, wrth iddo symud. Ac eto i gyd i ba hafan ddiogel bydd e’n ffoi, ac i freichiau cynnes pwy? Fe fydd rhywun, yn rhywle, rywsut, i ofalu amdano fe, fydd e’n gallu rhannu gyda nhw’i freuddwydion twp am newid y byd drwy drefnu partïon rhydd, a cherddoriaeth rafio, a lledu’r cariad, on’ bydd? Ond cyn i ‘ny allu digwydd, bydd rhaid iddo ymweld â’r bwthyn yn y goedwig o binwydd ar lan yr afon lle bydd popeth wastad yn edrych mor drist, y lle mae’r Hen Filwr wedi’i ddangos iddo. Mae’n sicr fe fydd rhywbeth yno o werth enfawr os bydd yn bosibl dod o hyd iddo.

 

A dyna ddyn o’r enw Steffan, fel gafr ar daranau. Mae wedi dod i ben ei dennyn erbyn hyn ac yn eistedd yn unig ar lan yr Afon Wylofus ymhlith y fforest binwydd, yn y cysgod llydan sydd sylwedd oedolaeth, a dydy’r tywyllwch ddim yn ffrind mwyach, na’dy, dim yn awr. Mae’r nos yn udo, er bod ei udo’i hun wedi distewi, ond ‘sdim môr-ladron i’w gipio ymaith ar wely hedfannog, a'i alw'n Patarasanū Pūshan, nac yw gwerin y coed yno 'chwaith i’w gwtsio fe bellach – dim gwir ffrindiau gwryw – neb. Ar ei ben ei hunan, mae’n llygadu’r allweddi â gwaed arnyn nhw, a’r cnawd cignoeth ar flaen ei fraich chwith, wrth i’r Hen Ryfelwr Llwyd wylio yn y pellter, dan bwdu. Mae rhai geiriau wedi’u cysegru i briodferch anhrefn, iddi hyhi sy'n marchogaeth ar y bwystfil, yn hongian yn y tarth: ‘Â'r gyllell hon yr wyf fi'n tynnu'r gwaed, sydd fy mywyd.’ Fel sy ‘di digwydd mor aml o’r blaen, fe fyddai rhaid i’r llanc wisgo llewys hir yfory i gelu’r briwiau, ond y tro ‘ma mae ‘di penderfynu heb gysgod amheuaeth taw yfory na fydd. Wezir a’m helpo yw’i obaith gwan wrth baratoi i’w daflu ei hun i’r dŵr lliw rhwd, llawn olew seicedelig, trolïau siopa drylliedig, a chyrff llygod mawr, marw. A dyna fe’n dymuno fe allai fe hedfan.

 

Ac o achos meddyliau angerddol y ddau lanc, sy’n atsain o’r dyfodol i’r gorffennol, siŵr o fod, dyna berfformiad “gorffwylledd nefol” gan y band seiber-esgyniad  o'r enw y Meirwon Serennog nad yw wedi digwydd eto, yn cael ei ddarlledu o’r Nw Yrth i chwythu trwy ymennydd y ddau, ac mae’n llawn cyfaredd "banda", a dagrau cyson y Swynwr Seraffaidd o’r enw Nebesh —

 

O, mor fregus ac eiddil yw bodolaeth y Thorlin! Mor hawdd ydy dioddef a ffoi! Ond fyddwn ni byth yn dianc? Drachefn a thrachefn rwy’n defnyddio’r hud cryfaf i gyrraedd glannau diderfyn Afon Dagrau. Ym mhob man rwy’n clywed meddyliau’n eiriol, yn fud ac yn ddall, dan wyneb y drych gwyrdd gwlyb. Dyna nhw, y rhai diflanedig, yn cilwenu mor ddisgwylgar yn nyfnderoedd pellaf yr hylif olewog, er na alla i fyth eu gweld nhw’n glir. Ac yno, yn aml, bydda i’n rhythu ar fy nelwedd alaethus fy hun am gryn amser, wrth geisio cael yr un cipolwg arnyn nhw. A! Dan ddyheu am gyfathrebu, fe wisga i fwgwd glas yr Angau, ac estyn fy nwylo’n daer atyn nhw. Gyda geiriau hynafol rwy’n erfyn arnynt i ddynesu at y golau indigo, ac agor llygaid wnïwyd ynghau am gyhyd. Wedyn, wele, dyma’r eneidiau colledig yn codi heb rybydd mewn cyrff holliach am fyr dro. Ond ar y gair, fe ddiflannan nhw, y rhai â darnau arian yn eu cegau, am na chaniateir iddynt aros, yn unol â chyfreithiau nas crybwyllir y fangre mor llawn cysgodion. Faint a orfodir i ddychwelyd heb saib i yfed y dyfroedd sy’n caethiwo, ac wedyn pylu mor gyflym unwaith ‘to? Cyn rhy hir, weddïaf, cân nhw eu traed yn rhydd â’m cymorth, a chroesi’r wal gyfyngol. Ac wedyn byddan nhw’n goresgyn tranc a gafael yn y bywydau newydd sbon a addawyd i ni oll ers talwm iawn.